


Rewrite the Stars

by weepingredemption



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingredemption/pseuds/weepingredemption
Summary: The task was simple. Find the Wolf-Blood Witch and bring her before the church. He did not plan to fall in love with her. Slow-burn Nimutlot. Rated M for graphic description of violence and sexual themes
Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely thank you to my editor wyldlynxx over on Tumblr. This is a story that I have been working on for a couple days now, but the idea has been floating in my head for a couple of months. I truly hope you enjoy the read. Future chapters will be longer than this, I promise!
> 
> Feedback is very much welcomed and highly encouraged. It lets me know how I am doing, helps me improve, and brightens a writer's day!

The world around him burned.

Glowing embers leaped and twirled in a fiery dance of stars, the hot swirling air before cascading to the earth in a gleeful rain of fire. The fire burned like a temper; fierce and unrelenting, much like the screams shattering the air as his sword slew every living Fey in the quaint, unimpressive village. His sword was soaked in their blood, dripping wet, red droplets, silencing his victims until only the familiar crackle of flames could be heard. Black smoke choked the air, the scent of death lingering. This was nothing new for the Weeping Monk. He could barely smell the foul fragrance, or hear the terrified cries that followed his presence. This place would soon be nothing more than barren and dead ground, trees turned to lifeless sticks of charcoal, and he would be gone before first light.  
The unfettered light of the flames illuminated the scorched ground. The Weeping Monk withdrew his sword from a lifeless Moon-wing, turning as he heard the faintest gasp from behind. It was another, wounded from his previous blow, though barely alive.

“Please,” she weakly pleaded. “Y…You don’t have to do this…”

The Weeping Monk approached.

“You-You can still…stop. S-Save us.”

A ghastly orange light cast over the Weeping Monk’s features, revealing grim eyes underneath his hood, and black tear-like streaks staining his cheeks. The Moon-wing gasped, too startled to speak or move. He was all together frightening and resembling an of an angel of death. There was no hope for life, she realized, and in one last desperate attempt, she reached her small hand out. “P-Please—”  
In one swift movement, the Weeping Monk twirled his blade and sliced across her torso. With a startled, painful cry, the Fey fell limp to the ground.

His task was finished. The Fey village burned, and inhabitants slain. He stepped over the bodies as he passed through the only trees untouched by the fire. Behind him, charred bones – unsettled souls, reaching out to the sky like pallid, gnarled hands, as if desperate to latch onto the realm, to be whole again.

But they would never again draw breath.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weeping Monk returns to Father Carden in Dewdenn. He is tasked with searching the Fey temple, but is not quite prepared for what he will encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback! It received more love than I originally anticipated, and it fills my heart with so much joy knowing people enjoy my writing. I am so excited for this chapter as it is the one of the first introductions to the plot.
> 
> As always, thank you to the lovely @wyldlynxx from Tumblr for her editing, guidance, and late night conversations about our lovely Monk. This story would not be possible without her!
> 
> Feedback is welcomed and highly encouraged. It lets me know how I am doing and brightens a writer’s day!

_The Weeping Monk would never openly confess he thoroughly enjoyed being pinned against a tree by the Wolf-Blood Witch. He wasn’t certain he would even admit it to himself. The notion felt wrong. Traitorous. In this moment, he felt anything but that. Delightful would be the right word. By all rights, he should be concerned. Both swords out of reach, having been disarmed most impressively and retrieval of weaponry were beyond aid. Goliath’s saddle had them, and his faithful steed – who seemed quite unfaithful in this moment – was at the river. The Witch herself stood but a breath from him, the Sword of Power held tightly against his throat as she reveled in her victory. She was dangerous. Powerful, in ways no man has ever seen or could naturally learn. He was a rather skilled swordsman; he could say that without arrogance. He once slew five Fey with his hands bound. To attempt to disarm a Fey witch who could conjure the aid of the wood? That was a different matter. A foolish effort waiting to fail._

_But he wasn’t necessarily affronted by the predicament, either._

_“I must say, Witch, I am impressed,” he rasped out. “An exceptional improvement from pointing a wrapped sheath at me.”_

_Nimue raised her chin defiantly. In her arrogant triumph, she smirked – just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. “I cannot say I am impressed, Monk. It would seem your skills are out of practice.”_

_“Arrogance will be your downfall.”_

_“As inefficiency will be yours.” She was challenging him, a battle for control neither desired to give up. He could easily overpower her; disarm her and have her be the one pinned to the tree at his mercy. The thought was tempting, he would not lie. He fancied it. His hands ached for it. At the same time, he found her newfound confidence to be quite enthralling._

_“If it is by your hands I will die, then I shall die a pleased man.” His tone flirtatious, yet genuine._

_Nimue’s breath caught in her throat. She searched his eyes for dishonesty, any sign his words were nothing more than an attempt at mockery. She found none. Without warning, she lunged forward and firmly pressed her lips to his. He responded without hesitance, cupping her cheek with one hand while the other moved to her hip. She felt perfect in his hand, as thought she was molded just for him. He marveled the way his fingers laid over her curves, the feel of her velvet lips against his – soft and sweet, and full of a raw passion he had never witnessed before, not even in all the times they have been entangled in the heat of their game. Her lips tasted of honey and citrus; a taste so divine that he craved more._

_It was strange, his newfound desire. All his life he had known nothing but servitude and the harsh, relentless hand of discipline of Father Carden. Nimue was none of those things. She was every bit of goodness he did not know his soul yearned for._

_Nimue was the first to seek more. Her tongue traced his bottom lip – light and teasing. The touch was far from unfamiliar. He could be parted from her for weeks and he would still remember the heavenly feeling of her tongue in detail, and like many times when he had not seen her for some time, he could not stop the moan rumbling in his chest. The Weeping Monk opened his mouth, feeling the slight shudder overtaking her body as his tongue slipped inside. A pleasant surprise she had not expected from him, but one she gladly welcomed all the same. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue fiercely battling hers for victory._

_Nimue dropped her sword and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pushed her body up against his. The feel of his hardened manhood pressing against her thigh withdrew the most wonderful sound from her sweet mouth, and he nearly submitted to her will._

_In one swift movement, the Weeping Monk turned them around and now Nimue was the one pinned. She couldn’t say she minded. While she would never say it out loud, she would gladly give up control as long as it meant he would make her body thrum with pleasure only he could do._

_The Weeping Monk broke the kiss. A whine of protest left Nimue’s lips before she could stop herself. The protest soon turned into an appreciative mewl as his lips lowered to her neck. He kissed her skin with heated, light kisses, pausing now and then to nip at the supple flesh before soothing the sting away with his tongue._

_Nimue’s moved one hand to his wood, pushing it back and leaving his beautiful, weeping face unveiled. “Oh, Lancelot.”_

_“Say it again,” he rasped out in a desperate plea, sounding broken. “Say my name again.”_

_“Lancelot,” Nimue breathed. “Lancelot.” His hand slipped inside her trousers, his fingers touching where she needed him the most. “Oh, Lancelot…”_

The Weeping Monk woke with a start. He bolted up, unsheathing his sword with a loud _sling_ before he even had time to blink. He looked around breathing heavily. His eyes scanned every inch of the forest, listening and smelling the crisp autumn air, only sheathing his sword when he determined there was no immediate threat. Dawn was approaching; the black, starry canvas was slowly disappearing, the first light of the sun beginning to break through the veil. An hour earlier than he was used to, but he could not foresee himself falling back asleep.

His thoughts wandered back to the dream he had. The Weeping Monk’s face fell into a deep frown. Dreams were no stranger to him. They came frequently, normally in the form of torture, pain and blood, the voice whispering the darkness it was known for. Never did they come like this, never so… _sinful_. He searched his memories for the face of the woman in his dream. Was she someone he had seen while passing through a town? Unlikely. Too often he was at Father Carden’s side or doing as he bid during his time there to see many women. Was she a Fey he had slain? That seemed more likely. The faces of those he killed frequently haunted his dreams. So frequent since he was a boy, the Weeping Monk was not phased anymore by the visits. They certainly did not have a hold over him like this one.

And he certainly would not – has never – have such an unholy dream about the demons.

 _How fitting for the dark angel_ , he thought bitterly to himself.

With a quiet sigh, more like a huff of annoyance, the Weeping Monk moved to stand from his spot, and that is when he first noticed his pants were uncomfortably tight. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he realized what this tightness was and _why_.

Next to him Goliath snorted. He looked at her. “Don’t start,” he warned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was early when Goliath led the Weeping Monk through the burning Fey village, not yet two hours past first light. He paid no heed to the chaos; the screams of terror and the sound of blades meeting skin had become familiar to him so many years ago that his ears were nearly deafened to the sound. The remnants of battle still stained him; the smell of smoke and blood clung with a tight grip, threatening to overpower his senses. The smell of Fey – dead Fey.

The Weeping Monk suddenly pulled on the reins, bringing Goliath to a stop. Standing several feet away was Father Carden, the Bible strapped around his waist a loud contrast to his crimson robe. He dismounted, allowing a Red Paladin to steer his steed away, and approached the waiting Priest. As was custom, he lowered himself on one knee and bowed his head. “Father.”

Father Carden reached out and touched the monk’s shoulder. “Rise, my son. Tell me of your recent advances against the Fey.”

“Successful, Father,” the Weeping Monk answered, rising to his feet.

“The Fey village was burned?” The Monk nodded. “And the Fey?”

“Slain.”

Father Carden was pleased with the news. “Another Fey village uprooted from our good Heavenly Father’s earth. With any luck, soon the northern part of the kingdom will be free of these demons.”

The Weeping Monk said nothing.

Not that he would be given the chance to speak even if he desired. Father Carden stepped to the side, gesturing with his hand behind him. “Come. I want to show you something.”

Father Carden led the monk further in the village. They passed crosses planted in the ground, a Fey bound by rope to each one. Some were long dead, nothing left but bright flames engulfing their blackened, unrecognizable bodies; others were alive, crying as they waited for their fate, and screaming and moaning as they burned. The Weeping Monk was indifferent to this. The sight and sounds, even the smells, had no effect on him. What stiffened every muscle in his body was being in the village. There was a familiar touch in the air, every time there was a hand reaching out, trying to touch him, a familiarity trying to rise to the surface. He hated it, and like all the times before, he pushed back the feeling.

As they neared a thicket of trees, the Weeping Monk stopped short. A straight and long path led through the canopy paved with fallen logs and leaves led to a cavern, encased in a warm light as streaks of the sun trickled through the greeneries. Father Carden continued, but the monk stayed where he stood. The smell of Fey was particularly strong here. Faint, whether by time or distance, yet lingering, overpowering even the foul odor of smoke and death emanating from his clothing. The Weeping Monk scanned his surroundings. He thought perhaps a Fey was hiding nearby, or they were stepping into a trap, and for that presumption he gripped the hilt of his sword. The concern was dismissed when he recognized the scent was old and did not emanate from anywhere but the cavern.

He had never come across a Fey with such a strong scent before. It was bewildering. The Weeping Monk took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The smell of oak and floral, and Fey-like, a spring rain shower, swept over his senses. His chest tightened as a strange sensation warmed his body, tingling the very tips of his fingers and twisting the pit of his stomach. His face hardened as he clenched his jaw, the grip on his sword unconsciously tightening. He did not like what this scent – what this _Fey_ – was doing to him. He couldn’t understand how this was possible, and that more than anything annoyed him.

“Do you see that there?” Father Carden’s voice pulled him out of his concentration. The Priest was completely unaware of his pause or findings. “That is their temple of unholiness,” he continued, pointing at the entrance leading inside the darkened cavern. “What is kept in temples, my son?”

“Relics,” he answered as he crossed the short distance to stand next to the Priest. “Valuables to the faith.”

“Precisely,” Father Carden affirmed. “Items of great value. Precious to them beyond measure.” He seized him with a firm, knowing look. “Ancient _weapons_.”

“You think the sword is here?”

“I think…” Father Carden turned his gaze back to the temple as he gathered his thoughts. The corners of his mouth pulled into a smirk. “that their leader fled to the temple and is trying to protect something. Tell me why would any possession warrant such…noble actions?”

“It is worth dying for,” the monk said.

“Then let us deliver that fate for their _divine_ purpose.”

The Weeping Monk clenched his jaw and nodded curtly. He was an obedient man; he did as he was told, as any Red Paladin should. Efficient. _Willing_. Anything less would result in severe consequences. He knew that better than any Red Paladin. This was no different; only, he was most eager to carry out the order. The scent was still on his mind, billowing like a gust of wind, taunting him. Unnerving him, and not in a way the Weeping Monk has ever experienced. Instead of the natural disgust he bore whenever he smelled the Fey, he felt something entirely different. A sense of peace, a light beaming on the darkness and bringing warmth to the depths of his heart. It brought strange and unknown sensations. The smell was divine. They were not unknown to him; he had smelled the scents before, yet never has it been this strong or combined so…beautifully.

He _liked_ it, and that made him angry. He was not supposed to feel that way.

This Fey – whoever and whatever they were doing – needed to be destroyed.

The Weeping Monk moved to approach the temple but was stopped when Father Carden grabbed his arm. “Do the work of the church today, son. Find what they are hiding and bring it to me. Kill every Fey you see. Leave none alive.”

He nodded his understanding. Father Carden released his arm, and the Weeping Monk began his trek. As he drew closer, it became absolutely certain the strong scent came from the temple. His hand still gripped the hilt to his sword, and he realized his fingers had long grown number from the tight grip. Loosening his grip slightly – enough to return feeling to his hand – the Weeping Monk quietly withdrew his sword, careful not to alert his presence.

Silence greeted him when he entered the temple. Cavern walls lined with growing vines passed him as he delved further with careful footsteps. While the air suggested absence, his nose did not. The smell was not as overwhelming as earlier, but it was there, clear as a sunny day. He followed the smell until it led him to the end of the cavern, the only room inside the temple. Unimpressive is the word he would use to describe his surroundings. In the center stood an alter and surrounding it to the far sides were plain pillars. Of course, nothing could quite compare to the lavish temples belonging to the church. The Weeping Monk had expected more; even the church took interest to the appearance of their holy places. For as much as the Fey revered their dead gods, they did not show their faith or reverence.

His foot touched something soft. Looking down, he found a Red Paladin slain at his feet. Streams of bright and fresh blood seeped from the deep gash over his heart, soaking his body and the ground beneath him. Not far away, at the foot of the alter, laid another Red Paladin. His back was turned to the monk. He did not need to face him for the Weeping Monk to see crimson gushing from his neck. He stepped over his fallen brother and approached the other, crouching down and rolling him over on his back. He bore a long and deep slice over his throat, wide eyes staring blankly at the cavern ceiling above them. A quick death, the Weeping Monk surmised. He bowed his head to say a prayer when he heard a quiet whimper. He looked up and saw no one. The crying continued, followed by sniffles and a mumble of inaudible words. It was coming from the other side of the alter.

He rose to his feet and rounded the corner. A dark-haired figure sat hunched over a slain Fey, their body shaking as they wept. The Weeping Monk moved closer. His foot stepped on a branch, the loud crack echoing off the cavern walls. He stiffened as the figure suddenly grew quiet, and he cursed himself for not being more careful. They turned, raising their head. The face he saw was not what – or who – he expected.

The woman from his dreams.

That was not the cause for his shock. At the same time she turned, he took in a sharp breath and was met with the same scent he had been cursed by its presence. The Weeping Monk was certain the color on his face would drain if he had let it. This peculiar and enchanting scent belonged to no ordinary Fey. That much was certain. What he did not expect was for it to belong to the one he had a vivid, nigh sinful dream about. Likewise, the Fey was equally shocked to see him, if not more fearful than shocked, and all she could do as she sat frozen in place was stare at the weeping face of the man who had razed her village to the ground.

“You,” they both whispered.

As it dawned on the Fey, panic began to settle, and she forgot how to breathe. Her eyes darted to the ground, and the monk followed her gaze. A wrapped bundle shaped in the likeness of a sword sat at her feet. She scrambled to stand, snatching it and pointing the end of it at his chest with shaking hands. “Stay back!”

Her threat did not deter him, if a threat at all. He thought it entertaining. Fruitless, but brave, he would admit. The Weeping Monk stepped forward. She took a step back in response, keeping the bundle between them as though it was some fierce weapon that would drive fear into his heart, consumed by her own fear to realize it would not provide any protection.

“I mean it!” Her voice was louder now, though shaky. “Stay back.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” the Weeping Monk said.

“No more than you will,” she shot back.

The Weeping Monk strode toward her. With every step he took, she took one back, until she tripped and fell to the ground. The bundle scattered out of her reach, now leaving her truly defenseless. Before she could blink, he was already hauling her up. She was not like most Fey and refused to accept her fate. She fought him, writhing, and twisting against his hold. The Weeping Monk did not budge against her efforts. He raised his sword, but she grabbed his wrist and attempted to turn it so that he would drop his weapon. She failed, instead resorting to her last hope by digging her fingernails in his skin.

The Weeping Monk hissed in pain. Earlier he was amused by her display of bravery, fueled by stupidity if anything else. Now he was annoyed. He should have killed her when she first faced him. He yanked on her arm, forcing her to cease her ridiculous and entirely fruitless attacks. He pulled a little too hard, however, and she fell against his chest. “Stop,” he growled.

“ _No_ ,” she spat. “I want to see you burn for what you’ve done!”

Were he Lancelot, perhaps he would have felt a sense of compassion. Empathy, to know and understand what it was like to have his home taken away and burned to the ground as his people suffered a painful and messy death. If he were Lancelot, he would have felt all of those emotions. He was not Lancelot. He was the Weeping Monk, and the Weeping Monk felt nothing. “There is nothing you can do for your home. It is _done._ ”

Anger burned in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell against him in ragged breaths. If he had better lighting, he would have seen the green vines enveloping on her cheeks and the columns of her throat. Thunder shattered the air, followed by a strike of lightning that felt all too close. The Weeping Monk looked up, startled by the sudden change of weather. The distraction was enough for him to loosen his grip on the Fey, and that is when she took her chance. She twisted her leg and brought her knee up to his groin – hard. Any thought of his sword or his orders left as he dropped to his knees with a grunt, gasping as the air in his lungs rushed out.

His last recollection was looking up in time to see her striking his forehead with a stone.


End file.
